


The Pioneer

by nosigmoid



Category: Travelers (TV)
Genre: Day 1: First Person, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Travelers Fandom Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-11 21:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17454266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosigmoid/pseuds/nosigmoid
Summary: History is full of leaders, engineers, tacticians, medics, all chipping away at the looming apocalypse, adding more firsts to the grand plan — and I know every single one of them. Not personally, of course, it's more numbers in there than faces, but still: I know each and every one of them, everything they did or could ever do, because I’m also a first.The name’s 0712, and I’m the first ever historian to get an update._______________________________________Part of the Travelers fandom week. Day 1: First Person.Read the tags for the warnings!





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is inspired by a Travelers fandom week prompt. I'm putting it out in advance, so that the work can be complete (or at least halfway through) by the beginning of the challenge.
> 
> Meanwhile, thank you for taking an interest! Read, rate, tell me what you think, the works.  
> Constructive criticism is always welcome!
> 
> P.S.: not a beta in sight, so if you spot any typos or weird grammar shenanigans, feel free to point them out!

At the start of everything, there always stands a pioneer.

History — the one I remember, at least — is made by pioneers. Cheesy as it sounds, it’s especially true when your kind has started slowly leaving the dull, desolate present for the new and exciting utopian past.

There’s always the first ever traveler to make it, even if for the sole purpose of burning to the death shortly after. There’s the first ever team to complete a mission, and the first to ever fail one. The first man to end up in history books as a hero through time, and the first to be made into a horrific example. First ever traveler to see the sun, to sleep in an actual bed, to eat a turkey sandwich without the mental struggle of a war crime.

History is full of leaders, engineers, tacticians, medics, all chipping away at the looming apocalypse, adding more firsts to the grand plan — and I know every single one of them. Not personally, of course, it's more numbers in there than faces, but still: I know each and every one of them, everything they did or could ever do, because I’m also a first.

The name’s 0712, and I’m the first ever historian to get an update.

 

***

There isn't much uncertainty to the life of a historian. You're raised to believe that for every bullet you dodge, there's a file on when and where it fires stored away neatly decades and decades in advance. But, fortunately or sadly, there comes a day when all the mess you've made of your timeline starts to have an effect. And to me, that very day remains the strangest, the sharpest and the most cherished memory of my life in the twenty-first.

I was back at ops when it happened.

By that point, my luck had been running thin for quite some time. I’d been noticing changes. Changes minor enough not to shake the foundation, but significant enough to be... worrying. The team’s footing in the twenty-first relied entirely on my precision: the bets, the T.E.L.L.s, the politics — the inhuman volume of knowledge wrenched into my very much human brain made all the difference between a neatly organized operation and the violent thrashing of a chicken who’d just lost its head.

I shared my clever metaphor with a busy 0698. Or with Andy, rather, who was hard at work just across the small, hastily repurposed warehouse. Andy, in turn, shared that if I didn’t stop giving myself this much credit, the stick up my ass would be the end of us and not the aging data.

“ ‘s tough, falling from grace, isn’t it?” he poked, eyes still on his mess of lead and wire. “Going from demigod to human in six months... I cannot imagine the trauma.”

Which stung. Just a little bit.

“You… you know that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Yeah. I know.”

 

“Alright, I tell you what,” I finally caved after a tough two seconds of silence. “Even with the tide shifting, even with the greatest, the literal greatest moral relief any person could ever experience, I still miss being able to ruin any sort of surprise for people like you.”

“Huh. You don't sound relieved.”

“Scratch that, I miss ruining the day for you and you alone.”

He let out a chuckle, which immediately felt like a personal accomplishment. A historian is never easy to be around — people look at you and see a wronged child, a martyr, suffering a great weight for an even greater good. I will never blame a soul for their compassion, but it still takes time to learn that pity is not the only feeling you invoke in fellow man. At least… God knows, at least it took me a while.

“Seriously, though,” Andy said suddenly, his voice deeper with the signature now-I-mean-it tone, “you’ve been here for a while. I doubt that staring at the box for another ten hours will help.”

“Yeah, and what will?”

“Taking a walk, breathing some air," he started matter-of-factly. "Not exhausting the brains of the team over the course of one week. Keeping to Protocol 5. You know... Eating.”

“Tell me, then, what good can the brains possibly be when the head's about to get blown off by multiple financial crises?”

I felt anxiety slowly blend into petty annoyance as I mindlessly picked at the skin around my thumbnail. “Good luck misusing the precious boxes with nothing to power them. Besides, I’m not just staring. I’m monitoring-”

“Looks like staring to me.”

“-monitoring the stocks, the investments, oh, and the eight bets that haven’t yet turned out completely different numbers. One of our investments is plunging like a very enthusiastic penguin into the very doomed Arctic Ocean, and, and, I've got a feeling, this investment will follow the perished penguin in its footsteps… Money should be the least of our worries, what with the time travel business-  We’re saving the world, for fuck’s sake, and I’m letting the internet bill get in the way of... Ugh! Sorry, humanity, no eternal bliss for you this time, eat up the dust and don’t fucking complain! I’ve got three predictive algorithms running parallel on this one, they should make up for it, coupled with my own-"

“Hey, hey, easy there.” I hadn’t noticed Andy abandon his workplace. His hand was now resting on my shoulder, cautious. “Look down.”

I lowered my gaze to find both of my thumbs bloodied. Slightly disgusting, and somewhat deserved.

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry.” Sorry, host body. Old habits die hard. “Maybe you’re right. I do feel a little jittery.”

I fumbled uselessly for a napkin. He’d been holding one already.

“No way,” Andy replied, his voice devoid of the usual mocking hint. He was pitying me, the bastard. “You’ve done enough, seven-twelve. Really. You’re a brilliant historian and an invaluable team member, and you’ve done enough. Get some rest.”

“I mean… You can’t really be a good or a bad historian. It’s a, um... it’s sort of a binary state.”

“Okay, then. You’re an annoying piece of work and a pain in the ass to handle. Happy now?”

“Guess so,” I smiled.

Andy looked about to say something when his brow furrowed. I felt ready to concede, to thank him, to get up and make the Director itself proud of all the Protocol 5 I was about to embark on, but his eyes looked right past me.

“Oh, crap.”

I turned around to a yet another screen, one I had set to a couple of news feeds. It was crawling with titles, a waterfall of loud, flashy lines emerging by the moment. And the words, the scandalous words that only the papers of the twenty-first had to offer, the terrifying words: flight crashed, landing failed, forty-two confirmed, seventy-eight uncertain, nineteen missing, one alive.

Andy’s focused gaze jumped from line to line. “Did… did you know about this one?”

“I- No, I did not.”

He paused.

“How’s that even possible?”  
Now, that was a good question. So good that it snapped me out of the initial shock, got to the core of me, clicked all the discord into place and, instead, led me to the shock of one simple realisation.

“I just didn’t. I… I would’ve told you, we would’ve known the second we woke up. But we didn’t!”

I suddenly felt so light, so loved by the entire goddamn universe, I forgot all about the forty-two and the seventy-eight and the nineteen — well, of course I couldn’t forget, but finally, for-fucking-once the digits faded, — I could tell I was confusing the hell out of Andy with my grin and my startled chuckle.

“I didn’t know! This huge thing happened, and, and I didn’t know about it, I haven’t had the numbers etched into my brain, I haven’t flipped through those forty-two deaths forty-two million times, none of this happened, Andy!”

His eyes were looking for something in mine, studying me with a weird synthesis of judgment and understanding.

“I knew nothing and I could do absolutely nothing.”

I stopped. Caught my breath.

“And I won't be able to. Not anymore. Oh, God. Oh, God-”

I barely noticed anything, apart from the judgment in Andy’s eyes giving way. “Come on. Come here.”

He didn’t have to say a word; I would’ve thrown myself at anyone, at everyone around; the feeling was too big for me to take alone.

“Whoa. I’m sorry,” I managed to mumble. “This is horrible.”

“No, don’t. You deserve this.”

The idea that I deserved a moment of euphoria at the news of tens of deaths felt absurd. Many things did, including the years, all the years that I’ve gone without this, all the years that now seemed so distant. All the years of knowledge I never chose to absorb, of suffering I never chose to witness, of every possible burden I never chose to bear, of my own thoughts bent and disfigured, of everything that just came to an end. 

It's over, it's over, it's all over. And it was, it was over long ago, it ended with the first ever misfired bet, but only now was I squeezing the life out of our exhausted engineer, only now did I feel the urge to burst out laughing-

“That’s right.” Andy patted my back, and I drew away.

 

“So,” he continued. “What’s freedom feel like?”

I sat back in my chair, cornered by endless screens that glimmered with endless graphs, something that didn’t matter and, at the time, felt like it could never matter again.

“I don’t know. Should I be honest?”

“If you can.”

I looked down at my blood-smeared thumbs, trying to scramble up a sentence.

“I, uh... I feel like a child. This, this, only a child can feel this.” I wiped at the corner of my eye. ”That’s what it was like. When I… You know. Didn’t think about it a whole lot. God, is this how you folks feel all the time? Just a bunch of innocent ignorant children?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Andy smiled. “Welcome to the twenty-first, version two.”

“Thank you. You lucky bastard.” I hummed mockingly, inspecting Andy’s delighted face. “Not a death on your consciousness, huh? Not a single one?”

“Nope.”

“Never had post-mortem reports for bedtime reading?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Interesting. I’m taking notes, if you should know.”

“You always are.”  
“Very true.”

 

That evening, not a single graph was in sight. Andy asked me to turn off every computer in the warehouse, at least for the rest of the day, and I couldn’t refuse him the right. Because, again, none of that mattered anymore. Not to me.

We were drinking some terrible beer he’d got from the nearest convenience store (“We need to celebrate. No- stop- don’t say a word, I won’t listen. Be right back.”). The dead boxes surrounded us like a fallen hoard; cold pizza was getting more stale by the second, left forgotten next to an asteroid-reverting piece of science fiction. (“That’s just one part. But yeah, you can leave it there. It’s not like close proximity to pepperoni can ruin the wiring.”)

Andy didn’t comm anyone, for which I was grateful: all I wanted after the breakthrough, if one could call it that, was a bit of quiet. Unfortunately, the universe still wished to annoy me one last time.

“Anybody here?” The silhouette in the doors turned out to belong to 0577, also known as Hannah, also known as our unshakeable team leader with the poorest sense of timing.

“Evening, boss,” Andy greeted, ever so welcoming.

“Evening, gentlemen. What’s the occasion?”

“A plane crash,” he grinned.

Thank you, Hannah, for choosing to ignore it.

“Ah-huh.” She hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching the room. “I’m just here to pick up some parts for the trade-off. You’ve finished the second batch, six-eighty-nine, haven’t you?”

“Of course.” Andy hopped off one table and headed for the other, whose surface had been entirely obscured with empty takeout packs. Watching the most skillful engineer I’d ever encountered awkwardly dig up his work from under this much cardboard made me chuckle; Hannah, in turn, did not share my affection. I could feel the Hannah look overtake her face and the Hannah tone emerge in her voice before she even spoke.

“That’s on me, boss,” I rushed to intervene. “Didn’t know where else to put it.”

Hannah sighed deeply instead of replying.

“So long as it’s operational,” she finally said, more warmly than expected, which almost felt like another weight off my chest. She and Andy exchanged glances.

“Trust me, it is,” he replied, without any pretense of modesty.

 

“She’s happy for you, you know,” Andy said once Hannah was gone, a faint smile still lingering on his lips. “And the others will be, too.”

“How… Oh, well. Nevermind. That’s her, I guess.”

“Yeah. Hannah always knows.”

“And the others? Why’d you mention them?”

Andy paused for a moment and, surprisingly for me, averted his gaze.

“You’re not just a historian, seven-twelve. The dates aren’t the only thing you have to offer. As a traveler, as a person. Is what I meant.”

“Oh, come on!” I almost felt offended. “I know that, of course I know. You can stop it with the therapy now, Andy. It's all good.”

“Oh. Well. Good for you, then.” And, after a second or two, he added, “I’m happy, too. I mean it.”

“Yeah, that I know as well.”

 

A serene couple of moments passed before I felt a buzz in my pocket. Andy was busy taking another drink, still smiling mysteriously to himself, so I took out the phone and flipped it open.

 

_Traveler 0712,_

_You are expected at the following coordinates:_

_34°45'17.2"N 86°29'16.5"W_

_on 03.10.2004, 9000 local time._

_Further instruction will be given._

_Arrive unaccompanied._

  
  
  
  


“What, what is it?” Andy’s voice finally managed to break through.

"Huh?"

“Not the time to stare at your phone, buddy. We’re having a moment over here.”

“Oh, sure… Sorry. It’s nothing. His- my mom’s learning to text, I guess.”

I smiled hesitantly and flipped the thing shut, shoving it far down my pocket.

“Alright, then. That’s an honorable cause," he smirked.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, I showed up where and how I was told, alone.

The ominous message lingered before my eyes, even as I went on to finish the drink and thank Andy for the warm welcome. Even as I did the final check-ups and left the rest of the night to Protocol 5, the message kept circling, slowly leaving the back of my mind for the all-consuming front of my vision.  
Those few lines threw me completely off my newfound balance. The moment I stepped out I felt all distraction dissipate, leaving me face-to-face with the glaring thought.  
I hesitated at the door, trying to catch the light and the smell, to preserve the familiar warmth on my cheeks and the haze that was wearing off with each breath. There was a clink; he’s back to work already. No, I need to go. To process. So I went.

I walked along the lifeless roadside with a heavy chest. The doubt felt nauseating. Why else would it call for me, and me alone? I was still not falling to the ground screaming for dear life, that much I knew. Overwriting me seemed like the only solution, one I’d thought about, one I’d come to accept and anticipate, and yet... There I was, still trudging to my host’s tiny apartment, breathing the sobering air and very much alive. This simple argument became my only trickle of hope, and it was enough to poison the waters.  
I’m still here. This call could have nothing to do with it. The Director couldn’t have known. I'm still alive. They’ll reassign. They’ll let me go.  
My memories are all that matters. This call has everything to do with it. The Director knows, of course it does. They’ll take it away.  
But it’s impossible. I’m still alive.  
Rinse and repeat.

***  
The nausea persisted, even as I stood at the back doors of a factory building, following some torturously quiet commute and an hour of shallow sleep. The sickness was building along with an annoying headache; even with no frame of reference, I could tell it wasn't a hangover.  
I knew, I’d convinced myself that my balance was safe. I’m still here, that’s proof enough, that’s wrench enough in the gears of the Director’s logic, that’s solid ground. I wanted it to be, like I’d never wanted anything on a twenty-first-century morning.  
A kid went messenger on my way here — the twenty-firsters really don’t mind their kids wandering off, do they — so I knew what to do. I dialed my oh-seven-twelve on the lock, tried to smile at the peering camera and waited for the door to slide open.

I had to twist my way through endless doors and hallways before I could find the destination. Even with the messenger’s lengthy directions, the place made little sense. Unless you were a human map, you couldn't stand a chance at discovering, well, whatever it was they were hiding. Oh, they really were waiting for a historian. Did it mean…  
Some bracing, and I stepped in. The room was small and poorly lit, with an unimpressive computer table stuck awkwardly in the middle. The only other piece of furniture was a small medical complex, I… I recognised it. From the check-ups back in training. From way, way back. Hormone analysis, heart rate and an EEG in one box, elegant and portable. Did it mean?...  
I searched the room desperately for the how and the why, for the slightest hint of an answer, for anything that would cut me short or let me breathe, anything before this feeling eats, sizzles and smokes right through this poor host’s ribcage.  
“Traveler 0712, correct?”  
“Who- oh- yes. I’m sorry. Yes.”  
I hadn’t noticed a woman… A girl? Another traveler standing just beside the door.  
“My name is traveler 0213. Please, sit down.”  
I could still see the freckles in the dim light. They looked alien on that collected face, around those strange, old, patient eyes. Her host was so young.  
I wondered if I’d known about her.  
“Of course.”  
As I sat at the computer, she tapped her comm.  
“Come in."  
She held a pause until the door opened once again. “These gentlemen are traveler 0536 and traveler 0521. They are the medics who will be overseeing the procedure. You have nothing to worry about.”  
“I’m sure of that, ma’am.” I forced a smile. She returned it politely. The medics got to business.  
“Is it true that your historical record is no longer accurate, 0712?”  
No.  
“Yes.”  
My heart sank.  
“You are not the only historian who is going to struggle with this issue.”  
I stared. “Could you please...” one of the medics mumbled. I undid my cuff and rolled up the sleeve. Took some struggle. My hands didn’t feel right.  
“But you will be the first traveler in the twenty-first century to receive a trial cure.”  
A cure?  
“You, among several other historians, have been chosen by the Director to receive an updated dataset.”  
Please.  
Please, please, I thought and felt immediately disgusted.  
“So, I’m… not really the first, am I?”  
It was probably my awkward smile that gave her face that look of pity. Bitter. Familiar.  
“Oh, you are. It will only be introduced to a bigger test group once you’ve fully recovered.”  
In case it goes to shit. Gotcha.  
“I admire your spirits, 0712.” She sounded genuine. Still pitiful. Strange. “I assure you that the procedure has been thoroughly tested with the help of many historians, with many datasets of many volumes. This,” she gestured at our surroundings, “is only a precaution.”  
Please.  
“That’s not… not the concern.”  
“I understand,” she said softly. “As I’ve said, I admire your spirits, 0712.”  
Don't say a word. Not my name, not any of this, stop with that tone and that look, another word, I swear to god… The diodes felt cold against my temples, the IV sat uncomfortably in my arm, the feeling had gone from my fingers long before the oximeter was clipping one. My skin felt alien, exactly like it did six months ago.  
No, I know. You understand. This is saving so many lives, so much more than you and I can fathom, I know that, I really do.  
“Now,” she said after a weird silence, when all the monitoring was in place, “I will ask you to look at the screen.”  
I do know how much we're helping the cause, how much I'm helping. I'm the first, the pioneer, an honour of honours. And yet, that feeling, the one that had me disgusted with myself moments ago — it came back. I turned away.  
“Please,” she said. She sounded so strained, worried, almost. Was it instructed? Was it her? “Look at the screen, 0712.”  
What was I going to do? Tell her I pitied myself so much that I was ready to shove all of humanity aside? That I felt robbed, when all they did was give me a second chance? That I just really, really, with all of my being did not want to look?  
I gazed at the floor to the side.  
“Please,” she insisted.  
Suddenly, I heard myself hoarse and quiet.  
“Can I… have another day?”  
What was I saying?  
I heard a sigh. A moment passed, and I felt a medic’s hand lay firmly on both my shoulders. Now, there was really no need for that. I could look on my own.  
I lifted my head, and I looked.  
“That's right.”  
Another sigh escaped her.  
“Traveler 0712, open memory chain 012-158.”


	3. Chapter 3

I’d grown to hate the ops couch over the past five days. It remained my only companion, save for Andy’s occasional visits, but I wasn’t feeling the gratitude. The worn-out fabric, the unbudging surface fit to comfort a pile of brick rather than a human being, the one glaring spring — where’d they manage to dig up this beauty?  
It didn’t help that I couldn’t part with it for longer than fifteen minutes. One timeline felt crammed enough; two of them made my thoughts melt. The Director ordered to lay me off the missions for the next couple of weeks — the guys got no explanation, of course, they shrugged but followed, like we did, like we always do — but it felt like I’d need much more to… Fully recover, to quote Traveler However-Much, the freckled enigma whose face I saw last before it all went black.  
I wasn’t allowed to leave the ops, as if I actually could. Just a precaution, she said; exactly how she’d described the secrecy, and the equipment, and the silent medics. Somehow it felt more offensive that the Director, of everyone, deemed necessary to sugarcoat it.  
Staying at ops for two weeks wasn’t a problem: my host hadn’t left me the richest Protocol 5 to follow. I’d dropped out of college for him — something told me I wasn’t destined for History of Arts — and his family was horribly good at respecting his privacy. So, they left me to lie it off and slowly return to lucidity with a clean conscience.

During the first couple of days, I could barely tell up from down and migraine from nausea. Thinking hurt, perceiving hurt. My own imagination felt like a stone in the river of data, which hurt just as much. The two timelines had turned to bare nerve, firing a jolt of scalding pain upon the slightest brush of a foreign thought. So I let the numbers burn through me, find their place and maybe, just maybe, impossibly unlikely, settle.  
Sometimes I could still feel the medics’ iron grip upon my chin and my shoulders. As they made me look when I jolted, as I made a disgusting mess of foam and tears under their fingers, the grip imprinted into my skin and kept echoing day after day, long after they’d let me go, long after their faces had been wiped from my memory by the overflowing data — a historian’s closest match to forgetting.  
Eventually, the initial shock subsided, leaving me reduced to a living breathing headache, for which I couldn’t have been more grateful. The pain was dull and persistent, orders of magnitude better than a rollercoaster ride of piercing peaks and swallowing waves to keep you entertained.  
One of those days, I woke up with the bucket by my side gone and my blanket smelling delightfully of fresh laundry. Andy, you’re a saint. Oh, God. Andy.  
“There he is!” I heard from his workplace.  
He walked over to me and sat on the shabby wooden chair by my bedside.  
“Feeling better? Or was I too quick on the bucket?”  
He paused. A quizzical look overcame him, his smile fading ever so slightly.  
“What’s the matter?... Oh, I was too early, wasn’t I? Jesus, hang on, I’ll grab the—”  
“It’s… fine, man. ‘s fine.” I winced at hearing my own voice for the first time in three days. “Surprised to see you. That’s all.”  
“Well, someone here, unlike a certain someone else, still has missions to attend to.”  
“I’ve a mission. Mind you. Getting well.”  
“Getting well from what exactly?”  
“Redacted. Censored.” I smirked, which must’ve looked amusing from his point of view. ”Con-fi-den-tial.”  
“Thank you for sharing,” he joked, although failing to hide the trace of disappointment across his face. As if he’d still been expecting an honest answer. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better. Confidential-redacted can be a real bitch. I’ll leave you to it.”  
“Wait,” I blurted suddenly, in spite of everything that went through my mind at the sight of him, in spite of every bit of me wanting him gone. It was, in fact, everything that now coursed through my head that begged a certain question.  
The question was long. Speaking was tough. I stalled for a moment, with Andy waiting patiently for what I had to say.  
“You’re not asking.” I swallowed. His eyes instantly locked on mine. “You want to. I can tell. I can see that.”  
“Not asking for what?”  
His voice went quieter, softer. My effort was probably showing.  
“For the why.” I squinted at how loud it came out. I took a breath. “You want to know.”  
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”  
“But you’re not asking. The Director, it told you. Told you not to. So you’re… not.”  
He didn’t reply.  
“I know you.” I hesitated. “Well enough. I know this is hard. Not knowing. Not helping. Seeing me, saying nothing, this isn’t you.”  
“Listen, I—”  
“But the Director— it told you to keep out, so you are.”  
There was a brief glimpse of shame in his eyes. No, not that, I didn’t mean it like that—  
“So, tell me. And— and I’m not blaming you. I want to know. Really.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Is it worth it?” The longer I looked at him, the harder it was to keep talking. But I needed his answer. “Do you… believe, honestly believe that the thing is right? So right that its words… They’re worth this? Not doing something, something you’d do? Not being you?” I caved and looked away. “Letting it happen?” I could bloody see his uncertainty, his turmoil, him immediately taking it personally and trying to hide it. Boy, was he shit at hiding it. It was unusual seeing Andy so… Insecure? He was never vulnerable, he was never not right, he was my moral compass, he was the moral compass to everyone who’d ever met him, and now, just like that — uncertain. It felt wrong. Cruel. I started to regret ever asking. ”Because it told you to.”  
He hesitated. “If I answer honestly,” he started, treading carefully, “is anything going to change?”  
I don't know, Andy. All you have to do is say it. One word from you, one reassurance, and I'll forget it all, I'll forget the Director and its blind neverending orders. One hint that you'd do the same, and all the greater good bullshit will lose its weight for me. I’ll go ahead and finally break Protocol 3 and greet the overwrite with open arms. Say it, Andy, and save your own life.  
“Look,” he continued. He’d weighed something in his head just now, judging by the tiny crease between his eyebrows. “It’s not always easy. Hell, I’m not one to tell you that. But, the Director… It knows what’s best. For you, for all of us.”  
Something tightened in my chest. What else did I expect? He wouldn’t be sitting here if he were capable of giving a different answer. And still...  
“I see it this way,” he continued. “It has observed millions of different outcomes, and it has realised many things that we simply cannot comprehend. The rules of this game are out of our reach, and that’s something we have to accept. The orders are strange, and yes, often... Cruel. We often don’t know why we’re doing this.” No shit. That was all I needed to hear, but he went on, having no idea what was wrong with me and still trying to talk me down to comfort. “But the Director sees every step of ours, and every step that it allows leads us on the right path. Even when… Even when we really, really cannot see how or why.”  
I said nothing.  
“They weren't yours to save, seven-twelve. You’ve done nothing but good.”  
I shrugged absently.  
“Now, all you have to do is rest. Don’t worry. You’ve heard enough of the whole greater good spiel, haven’t you?”  
“Oh, I have,” I finally forced out and smiled.

***

The first week was nearing its end. Staying put had grown exhausting, as much from seeing the same walls as from seeing him. Andy’s presence had always been a relief; now, I caught myself begging, deep down, for anybody else every time the door creaked open.  
He knew something was off. My mind was healing, my voice was back, but my answers hadn’t grown any longer.  
He asked me again, tailing it immediately with a painfully considerate backtrack — you don’t have to, I understand, so on and so forth. I didn't say anything. He came back to work.

***

“We aren’t here to pick apart its business, Andrew.”  
“Well, this isn’t just the Director’s business anymore, is it?”  
Hannah and Andy spoke through my usual morning delirium. I felt like a spiteful child pretending to sleep in front of his parents; though, revealing myself was not a choice. As a rule, all I could do was find something to latch onto, a sound, a light through my eyelids, and try to focus.  
“...did something to him.”  
I heard a shuffle of mindlessly pacing feet.  
“And I do not deny that.”  
“What did you mean, then? Did you come here just to give me the official order, as my formal leader, to back the fuck off?”  
“Please, Andrew.”  
The pacing stopped.  
“I’m sorry.” I heard a wooden creak against the concrete floor, and then the pitiful squeal of an old chair accepting weight. “But I still believe that this is our concern. As his team, hell, as the only people in this entire world who are able to detect the problem.”  
“And I still stand by my request. I hope you understand that.”  
“Of course, of course I do.” There was a pause. “You’re my boss, and everything you tell me to do, I’ll do without delay. Not without question.”  
“And I admire that.” She sounded as collected as ever, a true talent: her voice stayed the same talking about life and death as well as off-time and breakfast cereal. “But you must see the problem, I know you do. We’re already down a historian. We can’t afford an unreliable engineer.”  
“An unreliable… Do you seriously think I’m going to do something?”  
“You already did.”  
“It was a slip-up. A slip-up that you noticed. Which doesn’t excuse it, but if you’re going to deem someone unreliable for—”  
“Listen. I trust you, we all do, but you’ve been off focus. I was willing to stay out until… Mission sabotage is not something we can ignore.”  
“You should not,” he hesitated for a mere moment. Something there was cracking. “You should not have been staying out in the first place! How can’t you see? This is our problem! It’s ours, Hannah, all four of us! One of our men left perfectly healthy and returned a shadow of himself. Look, just look for once! I know you weren’t exactly drinking buddies, but the guy’s been lying around barely conscious, and the time he’s around he has the presence of a fucking houseplant! He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t ask for food or water, he’s there but not in there, and even you know seven-twelve well enough to tell that this is not him!”  
There was a sigh. “I can see that, Andrew. Perfectly well. But, whatever has happened, the Director was behind the whole process.”  
”Which means the better path and the greater good, yeah, I’ve lectured him on that already. He didn’t seem so keen on the idea either.” Andy jumped to his feet and went back to pacing. The steps were louder, quicker, clearer, and each sent needles through my aching head. ”They did something to him. This is about his data. I know it is.”  
“And we can do nothing but let him rest. You’re driving yourself insane over a problem that’s far beyond our reach and, forgive me the dry terms, plainly beyond our jurisdiction. That, I hope, you know as well. I’m just as concerned, believe it or not, but there’s nothing we can do, and it isn’t worth reducing our team to only three functioning members.”  
His response was a frustrated mutter.  
I know about you too, Hannah. Though, you would probably have an easier time shrugging your shoulders and moving on. Every time I saw a face, I imagined telling them the time, the cause, exactly how useful the Director would deem them and how quickly they would be forgotten.  
Andy stopped pacing once again. By all means, do continue with the heroism, but the pain from each of your neurotic steps will be the reason I go before you do.  
Now, in retrospect, the idea doesn’t feel so unwelcome.  
“...look at me and tell me, honestly, look me in the eye and say that the number of functioning members is the only merit you can see.”  
She paused. “No. It isn’t.”  
“So?”  
“So I do my best to trust in the Director and move on with my mission.”  
His silence felt heavy.  
“And I advise you to do the same. I’m sorry, but we all need to move on, and that’s an order.”

***

Three weeks, and I could walk around the ops freely. Though, I did not feel like making good use of it. I’d returned to my old post and was now slowly getting the team out of the financial pit that only grew deeper in my absence.  
I was still not allowed in the field. I did not have to see them for longer than half an hour, did not have to look them in the eye, did not have to make small talk with my team while reading nothing but T.E.L.L.s on their faces.  
Shouldn’t have grown used to that.

***

Four weeks in, and the timelines have almost made peace with each other. They’ve untangled and settled, healed more by the simple passage of time than by my own efforts.  
With every restriction lifted, with all my thoughts in place, I was back. I was allowed to tag along on missions, I was given back the chance to make myself useful — and, whenever the Director demanded, I did.  
At other times, I stuck diligently to Protocol 5.  
I’d carried as much of my own equipment as I could over to the host’s apartment. Hannah didn’t seem to mind. Andy did. The others must have felt the tension; my flat affect couldn’t have possibly escaped their notice, and neither could the look on my face every time I was forced into any kind of conversation.  
The day was close. Two months. Why had the Director chosen to wait for this time, this moment exactly, to let me in on its little secret? Was it testing my loyalty? Was it trying to teach me? Was it growing a taste for human torment?  
The data used to be part of me, not vice versa. The update had changed that. Now, my own life and the grand record were intertwined, along with every face and every name I’d come to know in the twenty-first. I was too close to this, and the Director knew it. It could not feel compassion, but it was aware of the concept. The concept of compassion, which now had a name and a face.  
Andy, and his scrutinizing eyes, and his steady voice. His time, elevation, latitude, longitude. All I needed to know, all I couldn’t use, lest it shatters everything we’d been building under the careful superintelligent oversight.  
All I could do was circle through the thoughts. I’d lost any other interest long before I could stand again — there, two weeks ago, Andy was right.  
All I could do now was wait, stay sane and serve my purpose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the source for all the warnings, so reader discretion is advised! Also contains a brief description of dissociation and an elaborate description of a character bleeding out.
> 
> Reminder: an STA is a device that the Faction used to hide themselves from the Director's view. It was briefly mentioned in S2; here it's assumed that the device has been developed long before the Faction.

Andy and I were the only ones left in the van. We were to wait for the rest, who would come back with the remnants of another team, one that improvised a bit too freely and hid their coordinates a bit too poorly.  
My job was to mind the security cameras around the block, just in case — in the case I knew was coming, but could do nothing about — in case one of them broke off. Andy was probably there just because the job was fit for three, and because Hannah wanted us to finally sort ourselves out. I was willing to accept any reason, as long as it wasn’t mistrust.  
We were tucked away from any prying eyes, near a small lake just at the fringe of civilisation, where the town meets the fields and the fields meet the forest.

“Seven-twelve?”  
“Yeah?”  
I’d hoped we were past the need for constant conversation. For some reason, knowing his T.E.L.L. made it feel more... intimate. I was closer to him than, perhaps, he would ever know.  
“I’m asking now.”  
Huh?  
“Don’t do that. You know what I’m talking about.”  
Oh, right.  
“I’ve been thinking. You were right back then.”  
He did believe I had tried to guilt him, after all. I realised just how judging I must’ve come off weeks ago, in our strange and painful conversation at the ops, and felt a strong sting of shame.  
“I can’t make it much longer, so there we go. I’m asking.”  
“So, what, are you done with the protocols?” I chuckled. “Joining the rogue bunch?”  
Andy returned the smile. What a throwback.  
“I’m considering,” he joked bitter-sweetly. “What with the whole…” He looked over me and trailed off. “You don’t have to tell me everything. You know, as always. I only need to know if you’re genuinely, honestly, going to be alright.”  
I felt a treacherous lump in my throat. “That… that alone won’t doom us. I suppose.”  
“No, it won’t.”  
I hesitated, trying to calm the weird pressure.  
“Well, I’m fine. And I’m going to be.”  
His eyes bore a slight shadow of disbelief.  
“Promise,” I added, as reassuringly as my strained, quiet manner could allow.  
“Right.”  
He breathed out and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his gaze already cloudy with thought. He then leaned back on the headrest, closed his eyes and remained still.  
I was relieved to end the conversation and return to the cameras, however little there was to observe. And still, I couldn’t help but latch onto the bit of banter, that under-the-breath laugh, something I had never realised I could miss.  
Andy, on the other hand, never sat around. Before long, he opened the door with strange determination and stepped outside. I heard the shuffle of cardboard against denim, and a familiar clink.  
I wanted the easy, undemanding silence as much as I wanted to hear him again.  
“Thought you got the body clean,” I muttered, still not daring to look anywhere but the cameras.  
“I did.” He exhaled, and I felt the faintest trace of the smell. “But the man sure knew how to take the edge off.” I heard him tap mindlessly against the lighter’s lid. “I’ve been distracted, Hannah said once. So, helping the cause as best I can, I suppose.” He laughed again. This time it was ironic, almost grim. Not like him.  
I wondered if I had been the one to put that bit of lead in his laughter.  
Well, I was definitely the one to get his cigarettes back from the drawer. They too were unlike him, as much as refraining from help or laughing without a trace of joy.  
I looked up. His back, his shoulders, relaxed but completely still. A thin trail of smoke winding somewhere beyond my eye’s reach. No more tapping. Had I done this to him?  
There was no fault of mine in anything that had happened. I knew that perfectly well, and still — after the fact, the way I treated him, the way I handled the knowledge, the crack that I ran through the monolith of our team, that was entirely up to me. Staying human had proven too hard, so I went for the safe shell of detachment. As I sat there, the realization began to creep in.  
Looking at the man was hard, smiling at him was harder, so I deprived him of that for the fleeting illusion of comfort. God, we never spoke anymore. He was never at ease around me anymore. He was, perhaps, hardly ever at ease.  
He’d spent the two final months of his life thinking he’d betrayed a teammate, a friend, maybe. He breathed the fresh air of the twenty-first, he drank the clean water, he saw the sun and the moon in their ancient dance with his own eyes, and all of that was shadowed by the thought of me, sluggish and avoidant. He thought I was right, for fuck’s sake, right for what? Accusing him of not acting, not helping, not talking when he was ordered not to?  
His final memories were tainted by guilt. It was Andy, of all people, who would leave tired and estranged. And I made him that, just because I couldn’t handle foreseeing misery without causing it.  
I stared at the screen, but I couldn’t register. Remorse was filling up my chest, pushing at my eyes, stifling my breaths, and I would jump up, I would tell him he’d been the most help than anyone in this world, get back at his jokes, defend him to Hannah, I’d be there, I’d make every one of his days as peaceful as our shitshow of a job could ever allow, but… I knew it didn’t work like that. The damage had solidified.  
The time had run out.

Andy leaned against the car, drawing slow, absent drags. The crickets in the tall yellow grass drowned out his breathing; the calm water simmered just outside the window, right in the corner of my eye. The wind was warm, almost spring-like, blowing an earthy smell into the air of leather and gasoline. Scarce, irregular tears trailed down my cheeks, as I tried my hardest not to make a sound.

***

 

The roadside was dark, save for the occasional oasis of a streetlight. Though, the route from ops to home had become so familiar that I could probably navigate in a blindfold.  
I’d gone over this question so many times, on so many nights like this one, walking along the same road, entranced by the monotony of my own muffled footsteps. Was there any sense in doing it? Sneaking up, jumping the guy, or getting Andy out of the ops for the night altogether? Could it disfigure the timeline beyond repair, so much so that one puny life would matter nothing in comparison?  
A life, a world, a thread that was about to snap for the sake of the best possible outcome. That was, at least, how the Director saw it. To the human eye, that life would fall to ugly, useless cruelty; to us, that life was a pure, beautiful thing that got the treatment of ballast.  
And — the worst part — it made perfect sense. The machine scrutinized the problem, it pondered, scratched its circuits and decided that these particular pair of eyes were better off lifeless. So many of us believed that. Andy believed that. And, as scary as it was to admit, I believed that too.  
Saving him would seem hypocritical, even: I’d spent many months engulfed in overwhelming data, all consisting of deaths, deaths behind every thought and every street corner, most of them easily preventable. Why, then, hadn’t I jumped off the deep end? Why hadn’t I snapped into a self-righteous frenzy, run off to save each and every one of them until divine intervention finally knocked me dead? I’d been here for so long, why was it Andy that, all of a sudden, made this so fucking impossible?  
The answer was simple. Human bias was understandable, it was natural, but it would’ve blended into hypocrisy as soon as I spared Andy, and him alone. I did not have the omnipotence, and therefore the right to play god; the Director, on the other hand…  
The Director couldn’t possibly understand humanity. What right did it have, then, to decide human fate? To be doing something like _this _to a human?  
I had no idea. I checked with my watch. All I knew was that in a little over five hours, regardless of the logic I invented to justify it, this would come to an end.__

____

I caught my breath after running up three flights of stairs — no elevators in his building. I then fumbled with the keys before walking into the warmth and the familiar smell of home — which, strangely enough, his apartment had almost become.  
The narrow hall, the worn linoleum, the endearingly patterned wallpapers. The kitchen that could fit no more than a gas stove, a clothless table and a magnet-plastered fridge. There had been so many old notes, stuff to do with groceries, classes, appointments... It’d taken me a while to muster up the courage and take them down. His handwriting had been broad and childish, which made his class notes all the more amusing.  
A couple of stars pierced through in the window, tiny trickles of silver in a sky that was never quite dark. He would see the same picture every night, here, standing in this same spot, holding this terribly old kettle to a stream of tap water, taking it entirely for granted. I liked to keep up the memory of him, at least here, in a place where I’d always remain a guest. Would he mind the things I did wearing his face? What would he say if he knew what I, the man who inherited his life, was about to let happen?

I set the kettle to boil. I didn’t know what to do. I left the kitchen, which took four steps in total, crossed his bedroom, now sloppily crowded with computers — which took two — and gave myself over to the welcoming cold of the sheets.  
I did not know what to do. I hadn’t had a chance to see him that day, and the day before did not feel so ultimate, no grand goodbyes were said and no realization was had about the last time I ever saw him. It felt stupid. Everything felt wrong, and useless, and silently infuriating. I gazed into the ceiling, I felt the sheets against my skin, but it was all almost artificial. Flat. Foggy.  
Only now do I realise what my brain was trying to achieve. None of this is happening, it told itself, none of it is real, not a part of you or your ridiculous life is real. Wait out the nausea, go to sleep, and his voice will be the first thing you hear in the morning.  
I did not deserve the dissociation. I was part of his death, even if I’d had no say in becoming one.  
Please, Andy, this night, just stick to your Protocol 5 for once.

I swallowed: my throat felt like parchment. I blinked away the static, turned my head and looked at the clock. 0:32 in the morning. That’s… still long. 

Another hard swallow. Another turn. 1:04 glowing red by my bedside. By that point, I’d lost the thread of coherent thought, which felt so much better than complete lucidity. The night dragged on. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if time decided to slowly grind to a halt. 

The sickness in my stomach brought back images. The room, the chair, the grip, the numbers, so many numbers— Was this what it expected?

Was it watching?

I wondered where and how it was going to read this. How it was going to strip me down to my thought pattern, to watch its pioneer carefully, centuries after what had remained of him turned to dust and soil.

2:23. I flexed my numb arm and sat up. Waited out the colourful blur that overtook my vision. The body and the thoughts felt alien; the memory of tonight was echoing in the back of my mind, distant. I knew that the time was close, awfully close, and that I desperately needed a drink.

As I poured the cold kettle out into a glass, I felt like my body would reject every single drop. I wouldn’t be able to sleep, that much had been established.  
I didn’t know what made me leave the glass, get up slowly, reluctantly, step out of my slippers and into the heavy boots. A jacket was thrown on over the shirt I hadn’t had the care to change.  
Something was tugging at my arm. Something was making the world feel dizzy and surreal, telling me I couldn’t possibly stay. 

***

The air along the way was fresh, somewhat sobering. Reality pushed its way through the fog, not quite enough for me to feel the situation, but enough to notice how life was not confined to my tiny, although very strange, existence. Rare houses sprung up along the way, some slumbering, some glowing yellow through the curtains.  
The clouds have parted, clearing my head just enough for the thought — what the hell am I doing? — to shine through.  
Not enough to make turning back an option.

 

When the warehouse outlined in my vision, its door had already been opened, sharp light seeping through the crack.  
Couldn’t be too late, could I?  
I couldn’t run for the fear of getting noticed, so I strayed aside and walked carefully, through the empty valleys and the abandoned yards, to eventually find myself at the back exit. I couldn’t hear much from there, so I trod cautiously along the wall to settle right around the corner.  
There were still voices. Not late, after all.  
At that point, I had to go through my daily reminders, my anchors of sanity. The Director wanted this to happen. Best reality. Best outcome. Greater good.  
The voices came out distant and muffled. One strange, raspy with exhaustion, and the other…  
_Don’t fucking move. ___  
A very loud shuffle. Some words, a mutter I couldn’t make out.  
_...It’s okay, I’m not. ___  
A silence followed: I could only imagine that it was the gunpoint conveying the message.  
_I’m only here for the STA. I won’t do anything unless you make it unavoidable. ___There was a pause. _Up up up, I wouldn’t do that. ___  
And thus, everyone on our team remained sound asleep, undisturbed by their pesky comms. All of them within a five minute’s ride. Me, crouching at the entrance.  
_We’ve destroyed it. _That was Andy.__  
Please, please don’t.  
_No, you haven’t. ___  
I felt my heart crawl up my throat. Sitting still was agonising, and it was all I could really do.  
_We have been ordered to destroy it, _he persisted.__  
_Not a fucking chance. You were ordered to dismantle it and reverse-engineer every little piece. Now, please, have the courtesy to shut up and let me leave. ___  
_This isn’t my choice to make. ___  
_If you cite a protocol… ___He sounded horribly, impossibly tired. _Just— just show me the device. ___  
Another silence. Footsteps, perhaps, that I couldn’t catch.  
_What? Put it back together. ___Pause. _Come on. ___  
Some seconds later, the first metallic click cut through the silence.  
It must’ve been a solid minute before I heard Andy again. He was stalling. He could let the man leave, right there and then, and we’d never hear from him again. What danger could he possibly be, the lone, desperate survivor? He’d spend his life in hiding, he’d avoid phones like the plague, he wouldn’t dare go anywhere without his precious STA. He’d waste away in paranoia and empty tin cans. He’d walk under a CCTV camera five years later and fall to the ground in the middle of a parking lot.  
But Andy had to, he absolutely had to be an asshole of a soldier about it.  
He was saving the world, after all. And so was I.  
One wall apart, and absolutely paralyzed.  
_You can’t outrun it, _he said rather quietly, matter-of-factly, still in the works.__  
Even I heard the sigh that followed. _You really don’t have the moral high-ground here. ___  
No answer came. Perhaps, he agreed.  
It wouldn’t matter in a…  
No, I couldn’t lift my hand. Couldn’t move. No watch this time.  
Andy was working. The rogue appeared patient. He really did want nothing more but the device. I wanted to run, to yell, drown out their voices, I wanted to burst in there — and do what? Andy, our Andy, my Andy, victim of a victim, useless and violent, calm, understanding, annoying at times, so unbelievably… Wronged by the Director, like all of us, secure and confused, free and obedient, who was about to die for protocol, whom I was about to let die for protocol, at the hands of a hopeless man who loathed protocol and was cruelly punished for it.  
How was it allowing this? How was it watching? How could it not see the layers upon layers of wrong, of absolutely fucked, how could it be so entitled to ultimate judgement, what gave it the right to torture the beings it was intrinsically unable to understand?  
Why had it driven this man to kill? Why had it led Andy straight to the bullet? Why had it wrenched out my brain right when it would hurt the fucking most?  
Why did all these years have seemingly no effect?  
No, this was wrong. There was nothing to justify it. The Director allowed this; everything was a means to an end. An algorithm. Great for recognising faces, awful for orchestrating a species. An algorithm could improve like that; a deeply flawed, compassionate living being couldn’t.  
Humanity was not saving itself through this. _This _was against everything that human stood for.  
God. And I had let this— so much of this— so many—__

__

_____ _

Shot.

I leapt up. I loathed him. I’d never thought I could loathe, like he probably loathed Andy, and me, and everyone on our team for taking everyone on his. I felt acid burn through my chest, I loathed the Director, and Andy, loathed myself and the blurry figure making it off with a half-dismantled piece of tech, with a life, with Andy’s fucking life on him and his useless STA and his miserable existence.  
I stumbled, I flew in the door that that pathetic excuse of a soldier had flung open. Please, please, please—  
He was there, still there, beside the weapons drawer — tried to shoot for the gun, the guy was quicker, of course he was, you absolute fucking idiot — there was blood, so much blood, the air tasted of metal, and the smell, it made my empty stomach twist on nothing.  
I fell next to him, knees to the growing puddle. Turned his head to face me — his eyes were still darting, glazed over, nothing in there, the corners of his mouth bubbling pink. I fumbled with his shirt, tried to undo it, don’t know what for, it wouldn’t give, the buttons all slick with blood, I gave up and cupped his head and looked, looked and looked as his eyes halted and his mouth stopped it with the shallow, useless ragged breaths.  
I’d heard him choke from the outside. How the violent bouts lost any trace of Andy’s voice. I’d heard the clash of metal shoved feverishly into a backpack.  
I looked at my hands, trembling, slick and smeared with deep red. I felt the fabric around my knees soaked and heavy. Something in me kept contracting, the body trying to cry, or throw up, or both.  
I wanted to lie next to him. Or— or stay there. Hold him. Somehow. But I— I did not have the right.  
I looked around. Found a counter, and crawled back to lean against it. I saw a thick, smudged trail behind me. Andy was there, eyes open, face up. My doing, as much as the rogue’s.  
I leaned my head against the wood, and I didn’t get up.

***

Pale morning light shines through the door, which is still shamelessly ajar. I can’t see the outside from where I’m sitting: must be five, maybe six in the morning. The wind sends goosebumps down my forearms and eases the smell, little by little.  
Andy’s there. Doesn’t care much for it, I assume.  
I take a deep breath. The twenty-first has taught me to appreciate mornings: the light is soft, nearly modest, the silence is tangible, only broken by a rare bird or a gentle gust of wind in the tree crowns. Not a cloud to block the sun and a not soul to interrupt you.  
I’ve been terrifyingly wrong, and a quiet morning gave me plenty of time to go over the thought. It would’ve hurt to admit, if I hadn’t had more pressing matters to hurt for.  
They’ve been wrong, too, and it would take an Andy for each of them to realise it. Words, words can’t cut it. Didn’t do it for me, either way.  
Is this the outcome they’ll expect? That little experiment? Have I confirmed some cynical statement in a medical log, have I caused any change? The question, while still very curious, doesn’t hold any more weight. This timeline has been the one chosen for the course, the work has been set in motion.  
I don’t know how I’ll end up: swept under the rug of statistical minutiae or perked up on a pedestal as a game-changing example, be it a bad or a good one. I only hope that the countless historians that follow will now be in for something sweeter.  
Maybe they mind the timing next round. Perhaps, they mind the intel. Possibly, hopefully, they simply shrug and let us expire. I will gladly be the hiccup in the system that it takes to change it.  
Sadly, I’ve already done my fair share.  
I slowly get up, supporting my weight against the counter. God, all the sitting… I hiss and walk, slowly, over to Andy. The blood has dried into ugly maroon stains. His eyes… Glassy. I shudder. I still find it in me to crouch down and close them with a palm’s sweep — I may not deserve the honour, but he does.  
I reach for something he’s failed to grasp and open the arms drawer.  
I look back at the door. No one’s rushing in. No one’s blowing up my comm.  
The Director really doesn’t mind.


End file.
